What Is in a Hat?

“What is in a hat?
That which we call black, in any other shade would mean as little,”
~ Judith soliloquizing in the great tragic shidduch drama, Reuven and Judith

“Last night a shadchan told me that wearing a hat on Shabbos would “help me get a shidduch.” This is the sort of nonsense that is the true crisis, not the fact that I’m 25 and single.”
~ blog commenter

I stumbled across this comment somewhere in the blogosphere and copied and pasted it immediately for future use. I have no idea who said it and where, but I suspect many people are saying it in many places.

A fellow showed up for a date in a white shirt, suit, and hat. After the initial pleasantries (or unpleasantries) he led my friend to his car, where he proceeded to chuck the hat onto the dashboard, throw his jacket over the back seat, and in general, make himself feel more like himself. He turned to his companion and grinned.

“The shadchan said your father would throw me out if I didn’t show up in a hat. That true?”

“Yes,” she said, rather wishing he had.

“Yeah well, we’re past that now,” he shrugged, turning on the engine.

Too many guys are wearing hats because they’re told to. Thus, the guys who really do wear hats need to differentiate themselves from those who don’t. Which is why on one date I found myself listening to the guy explain that he’s putting his hat on the dashboard not because he wears a hat for show, but because there isn’t enough room between his head and the ceiling of the car.

And then there was the friend who asked me, in complete earnestness, if I would date someone who took his hat off on the first date? (“Well it depends if there’s room between his head and the ceiling, of course,” I almost said.)

And don’t forget the shadchan who asked me if I’d consider someone who didn’t wear a hat. “What does the lack of hat signify?” I asked.

“That he comes from a community where they don’t wear hats,” she replied. Not sure what I was expecting there. Maybe a “He’s a rebel against the establishment and doesn’t wear a hat as a symbol of his vendetta”? It would probably help to know where his community is located.

A friend from an exceedingly non-black-hat background once informed me that her father wears a black hat. “He does?” I asked in surprise. “Why?”

“To keep his head warm,” she replied.

If a person can judge based on their own family, then I feel a little weird discriminating on the basis of hats. My father grew up on the Lower West Side where all well-dressed gentlemen wore hats – black in the winter and white (tan? beige? some color like that) in the summer. And so did he until he realized that he couldn’t be properly ‘yeshivish’ without a black hat all year ’round. People might (big blush here) mix us up with the head-warming crowd. So now (against my vociferous protest because the white hat was quite handsome) we’re a black hat family, and naturally, the head-of-household’s having a hot head in the summer has greatly increased our spirituality.

The hat was once, presumably, symbolic of belonging to a specific subgroup of Jewish orthodoxy. Now it’s mostly just another technique for leaping hurdles in shidduch dating. As a result, it is almost completely meaningless. Any yet nobody abandons it. The black hat is now officially another requisite piece of frumkeit. If you don’t have it, you’re practically irreligious. If you do have it, you’re in the league – so let’s move on to your shirt color.

The black hat business is only symptomatic of what happens when a community increasingly relies on external symbols to draw conclusions about the inner being. Another is shirt color, placement of yarmulke, and amount of time spent learning. White shirts, full time learning, felt yarmulkes on the back of the head, and a black hat notches a guy up on the ‘goodness’ yardstick, thereby increasing his chances of getting a ‘good’ match.

But that’s really a subject for another post.

The Telephone Call – Endangered?

At the Shobbos-table discussion about second dates, one person commented: “Of course you need a second date before you can tell. Especially these days when nobody makes the phone call anymore.”

That raised my eyebrow, not in the least because I’ve participated in one pre-date telephone conversation and turned down an offer for another. Are telephone conversations really endangered?

A drop of nosing around has me concluding that phone calls are not “heimishe,” and therefore get more optional the farther right you go. This may be because they create the illusion that a couple can set up a date on their own – heavens! Yet, surely a phone call has less potential for pritzus (or whatever terrible things could come of dating) than an actual date. They should be mandatory.

And they’re so convenient. Preparing for a date takes time. Then there’s travel, dating, and return time. You don’t have to dress up for a phone call – you can even do the dishes at the same time. Or paint your toenails. Or practice the Highland Fling (headset required). Point is: it doesn’t interrupt your life as much.

If you’re not sure about someone – like if you’ve got inadequate or contradictory information about them – then a phone call is a great way to clear up issues before wasting any time on them. Plus, they eliminate one of the most idiotic parts of dating: setting up a date. The poor shadchan can spend half her day on the phone trying to coordinate a good time between two people with busy schedules. She calls Him and gets a good time, but it isn’t good for Her. Her suggests a time, which the shadchan relays back to Him, who mulls it over and suggests an alternative. And on and on. The entire nonsense could be eliminated if the two were permitted to speak beforehand and set up their own date. (Of course, you have to set up a time for a phone call, which can be just as moronic, but due to the different nature of phone calls, slightly less so.)

Of course, all the things that can go wrong with a first date can go equally wrong with a phone call, even more so without the visual cues. A cousin of mine called his future wife before the first date, imagining that it would be a “Hi how are you I’m fine when’s a good time for me to pick you up” kind of 15-minute conversation. He hung up an hour and a half later not sure what had hit him, but positive that the sheer length of the conversation boded ill.

Then there are those who tend to be laconic over the phone, have difficulty resisting the urge to check their email at the same time, enjoy the presence of visual cues even for the luxury of ignoring them, and appreciate the potential for external stimuli when conversation lags. (Though I wouldn’t turn down a pre-date IM conversation…)

Anyone here do or not do phone calls? Love ‘em? Hate ‘em? Ambivalent?

An Insensitive Question

Note: for people who care, this happened motzai Shobbos.  Note for people using RSS feed readers: this was removed, revised, and reposted.

My little sister had a nightmare. Or anyway, she hopes it was a nightmare. Last night I took her out to practice driving whereupon she recalled her “nightmare” and started freaking out at me. “Did I ask you a really mean question a few days ago?” she asked. “I mean like really personal? Like about engagements? I hope so—I mean, I don’t hope so, but if I asked anyone I hope it was you. Ohmigosh, I hope I didn’t ask Devorah. I really, really hope I didn’t ask her. I can’t believe—what was I thinking—“

While she’s letting off steam through her mouth I’m drumming my fingers impatiently on the armrest and interrupting whenever she pauses for a breath with, “So what was the question?!”

“Sooo insensitive, I can’t imagine what possessed me—“

“I hate sensitive people,” I snapped at her. “We’re not dying, we’re just temporarily non-spoused. So stop hyperventilating and tell me the question already.”

She did. The question was, “When someone gets engaged are you happy for them or do you think ‘I wish it was me’?”

Well, the immediate reaction to that is “No way” of course. But I figured after all that fuss she deserved a serious answer, so I mulled it over a bit more. On the one hand, there’s a bit of a twinge when a friend gets paired off first and you wonder why you’re less matchable than they are. At the same time, I can’t say I’ve ever felt “left behind.” I imagine “left behind” requires the majority of people to be moved ahead, but there are so many singles to hang out with that I really don’t feel that way. If anything, I wonder if my poor married friends feel “left ahead.”

Then there’s the fact that most of my friends take the shidduch parsha much more to heart than I do. So I’m honestly glad it’s me being “left behind” and not they. I can take another few years of this shidduch dating before I start mumbling to myself on street corners and prophesizing that the end is nigh (hm. Maybe that’s what happened to Al Gore?). But people who take every disappointment as a crushing blow would be flat as paper dolls before their second “parsha” anniversary.

And then there’s the bittersweet knowledge that it’s never going to be quite the same again, once they move to some town with cheaper rent and can’t go anywhere without lugging their husband along, or at least his presence.

“When someone gets engaged it kind of reminds you that you’re trying to do that too,” I mused, while my sister did some exemplary driving. “And it makes you wonder ’so when is it my turn?’ But it’s not jealousy. It’s just pure desire.”

And then she cut off a guy in the next lane and the discussion ended abruptly.

Women drivers.

OHMIGOSHOHMIGOSHOHMIGOSH SHE’S ENGAAAAAGED

Sometimes I think I have a very thick skull. Things don’t get through very easily, though once they’re in, they rattle around for a while before I can get rid of them. Engagements rarely register before I see the engagee (or their floating heels) in person. As a result, I am incapable of behaving as I’m told I should behave when I hear that someone is engaged.

I had very little contact with my first engaged friend at the time of her engagement. So I heard she was engaged, said mazal tov, and proceeded to forget about it until I found myself at her wedding thinking, “Oh my goodness! She’s getting married!”

I did a drop better by Friend #2, but not considerably so. I was in middle of walking downstairs when she called and said, “Hi, I’m engaged.” I paused mid-stride to absorb this interesting piece of information. “Now why did you go and do that?” I asked.

In case anyone here thinks it’s a cute line and that they’ll try it on a friend one day, it isn’t and don’t. We made up three days later.

Anyway, I was racking my brain for the file labeled “things to say to someone who’s just told you that they’re engaged” and found it empty. Luckily, by then I was in the kitchen, and my sister, getting the gist of the conversation, yanked the phone from my hand and did the screechy-dance you see girls do when their friends get engaged. She asked all the right questions and hung up for me, after which my entire family roundly lambasted me for “keeping it a secret” for all of 30 seconds.

I don’t know what they were upset about. I’m not exactly histrionic at my noisiest. I can confidently declare that I will never jump on a chair and screech at a mouse. One my mother thought a mouse was invading a cabinet. I opened the cabinet and – serendipity – caught it red handed. It jumped from shelf two to shelf one, and my fist, apparently on its own, reached out to pin its tail. A split second after my brain kicked in and asked, “Is this wise?” to which my fist replied, “Does it matter?” Luckily I missed. My mother heard the thump of contact with the shelf and asked, “What are you doing?”

But apparently a bit of screech is expected, so I did a drop better by Friend #3. About a week earlier she’d mentioned an idea for a practical joke that included insinuating engagement on her part, and I had guffawed heartily because, ha – it was a good one. So there we were, about to start studying, and she’s flipping to the right page. “Hold on… a sec… found it. OK, ready? Oh wait – I almost forgot. I’m engaged.”

I laughed, figuring this was another joke. “Engaged, eh?” I leaned back in my chair. “Since when?”

“Last night, 11 pm. I know you go to sleep early and wouldn’t want to be disturbed for something like this.”

“Yep,” I agreed. “I wouldn’t want to be woken for news of my own engagement. But seriously…” Then I paused and considered the conversation. “Wait a sec – you are serious, aren’t you?”

“Yes, very.”

Having learned my lesson well, I asked her to wait just one minute, put the phone down, went to the stairs and bellowed, “Friend #3 is engaged!” There was a lot of shouting and door bursting as a response, but I was back at my desk asking some of the questions I remembered my sister asking after Friend #2. Maybe there’s something wrong with me, but I really don’t care who set them up or where he was born or any of the other stuff people ask. The important point is that a friend is happily engaged. The exciting part is seeing her shiny eyes and listening to her gushy conversation. Especially the part where she says (invariably) “I’m not going to be ‘engaged’ so don’t you dare accuse me of it.” To which I have learned to roll my eyes and say, soothingly, “No dear. You’re not the slightest bit ‘engaged.’ Nobody would guess, that’s how cool and with-it you are.”

So the way Friend #6 handled her engagement last night was perfect for me. (Disclaimer to Friend #6 if she’s reading this [which I doubt, because she’s currently commuting above the traffic lights, and probably can’t reach something as terrestrial as a keyboard]: not #6 in importance, just #6 in engagement lineup.) I was chatting with her sister when she popped on to ask me over for ice cream motzai Shobbos. When I said I couldn’t make it, she handed the phone back to her sister. “She was inviting you to her vort,” her sister explained. “Really? Mazal tov,” I said. “Now, what were we saying?”

I must be getting faster on the uptake, though, because by this morning it had sunk in. I gave her a ring. She assured me that she has no intention of acting “engaged” and that I should slap her if she ever lapses into it. If I’d taken her seriously, she would have been a fitting poster model for the abuse hotline advertisements before 9 am this morning.

Engagements. So much fun. But no screeching necessary.

If nobody got the idea: the singles club has shrunk by one. Party time!

What Seminary Says About You (Behind Your Back)

This is for Flatbush Gal, who is currently going through the seminary interview process, poor child.

Seminary might be the most overrated of frumkeits in the Orthodox community. Not that the seminary experience isn’t an awesome one, in all meanings of the word. The sort of learning you do is, on the whole, more exciting than high school fare, and there’s the giddy independence created by being a few thousand miles away from anyone who knows you well enough to keep a close eye on you.

The overrated part is how much of an effect seminary has on a person’s rest-of-their-life. In high school they told us that seminary would determine our “mehalech” so we should choose the one with “hashkafos” that match ours—or at least the ones we wish were ours. And post-seminary, guys and their mothers can kick up quite a fuss about a girl’s seminary, because it’s supposed to say something about her “mehalech” and “hashkafos.” Aside from the fact that most bais yaakov high school students go to bais yaakov seminaries, and most non-BY students go to non-BY seminaries, this application is negligable. Which is to say, we assume all BJJ grads are going on to smicha programs, Hadar students all wear pearl necklaces and don’t question their teachers, Me’ohr students may drop out of the cult but don’t count on it, and BYA students will spend the rest of their lives scrapbooking pictures of themselves in polo oxfords, slinky skirts, and various locations. From Michlala on down, every school has its supposed ‘type’. And it’s based on those ‘types’ that high school students choose their seminaries.

Only caveat: most students don’t get into their ‘first choice’ seminary. So already you have more than half the female population placed in seminaries that they don’t believe quite match their “hashkafos.” Of these, a good number don’t even get into their second choice. And some don’t get in anywhere, and therefore ended up someplace totally unexpected. I’m in the latter group.

Last night someone told me that when trying to sell me to a guy’s mother, she ran up against the seminary wall. “But do smart girls go to that seminary?” the mother asked anxiously. “My son is very bright.”

Um… The Someone didn’t know what to say. It was a classic “ask me about me” situation. Though, come to think of it, if the mother would have asked me, I doubt the answer would have reassured her.

Mom: So is that a seminary for smart people?

Me: Well I went there and they say I’m smart, does that count?

Mom: Well why did you go there if it isn’t on your level?

Me: Nobody else wanted me, it was getting late in the year, and I really wanted to go to Israel. But we shared teachers with other seminaries—how different can it be? (My opinion about “academic” seminaries over here.)

Mom: Hold on—nobody else wanted you?

Me: Yup. So my principal cut a deal with the menahel and shoved me into this sem at the last minute.

Mom: It’s been great speaking to you. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.

There’s a general misconception that seminary acceptance is all about grades. This myth is perpetuated by those with below 3.5 GPAs to explain why they didn’t get into their first choice. Those with higher GPAs feebly protest that it’s also about personality match. I can’t say that explanation pleases me either. My mother complains that it’s about SAT scores while my father is unapologetic about his yeshiva choices. A vague transcript of one of my interviews can be found here (plenty of identifying information glossed over) for further illustration.

My point is that if a large chunk of students only attend the seminary they attend because they have no other choice, how much can it say about them? I know of many people who didn’t fit the stereotypes of their seminary because they didn’t really want to attend it.

And all that stuff about molding… I don’t know how malleable the average brain is, but most students start recovering within 10 months of touchdown in the USA. Nine months of exposure to a “hashkafa” is no match for 18 years of prior life. I’m not sure I even know what the “hashkafa” of my seminary was. The thing that sticks with me is an awed feeling at how much depth there is to Torah, but don’t even try asking me for an example.

With people attending seminaries for reasons ranging from “I think it’s the perfect match for me” to “Well it’s in Israel at least,” can you really judge a person based on it?

 

Notice about moderation:

I’m out most of today, so comment moderation will be delayed.

Club Members

If you’re a club member who qualifies for ice cream, please contact Club VP Bas~Melech. Her email is located at her profile (the link that says “email” on the side).

Little Pitchers part 2

But it’s the One-Eighth-Pints you really need to keep an eye on. They adore learning new things, and even more adore displaying what they’ve learned. I still have scars from the day I taught some young campers what “hypocrite” means. They heard me mention it in passing as something not to be, and so eager were they for moral instruction that they insisted on learning what it meant. Then the enthusiastic young scholars, bent on expanding their vocabulary, had me review its pronunciation with them. Following which they used it. Liberally. Mostly to refer to me (“Oh Bad4? You mean the hypocrite counselor?”) or to hail me (“Hey Hypocrite! Come look at us play!”). One particularly exuberant afternoon they came dancing down the walk singing “Hy-po-crite, hy-po-crite.” Somehow, I got full tips anyway. (Is it just me, or do other people wind up in these situations too?)

Anyway, that’s how I learned to be careful about what I say in front of Eighth-Pints. Parents of Eighth-Pints are advised to check behind doors before whispering to each other about sensitive information. You may be prepared for the kid to whisper to a friend that her sister is dating, but don’t forget—these kids have imaginations, and not all can differentiate between real facts and the ones they conclude with after a long chain of daydreaming. Or better yet, nightdreaming. Parents who forget this are bound for a rude awakening, hypocrite style.

A friend’s parents didn’t check behind the door the night their oldest daughter officially hit the market. They were understandably excited, and probably chattered about it for a good part of the night. Fancy that – someone might want to marry their daughter! The very same one who’d made charcoal instead of steamed broccoli last week, but they wouldn’t tell him that until afterwards, and yes, the same daughter who still slept with a teddy bear and nightlight, but there would be no reason to mention that…

Well, Mrs. Parent went to pick up Eighth-Pint from school the next day and met Mrs. Teacher, wreathed in joyful smiles. “I hadn’t heard, but that’s so nice, mazal tov!” said Mrs. Teacher.

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Parent automatically, and then added, “Um, what for?”

“On Full-Pint’s engagement! Eighth Pint told us all today after davening. Who’s the lucky man?”

Faster than a speeding bullet or an erroneous OnlySimchas posting is the misinformation of an excited Eighth-Pint. Parents and Full-Pints beware.

Said It Better…

I wanted to write a post on this subject, but Bas~Melech beat me to  it, and said it better than I could have. Enjoy.

Little Pitchers part 1

There’s a reason for keeping dating details away from the prying eyes of younger siblings. Children are endowed with such active imaginations, bless them, that we’re blessed ourselves if we can avoid hearing it applied to our shidduch suggestions.

No sooner is the first date set up that Half-Pint and Quarter-Pint are daydreaming during class, doodling pictures of gowns in the margins of their notebooks. Even my sister, a Three-Quarters-Pint, has her gown planned out, and is increasingly annoyed at my cruel disinclination to accommodate her with a wedding.

Actually, not all of it is planned out. She has a serious problem with the sleeves. She loves those puffy bell sleeves, but she also adores the straight kind that taper to a point over the back of the hand. What should she do, oh what should she do? Every new prospective gentleman brings on the hand-wringing.

After rolling my eyes, I offer a solution. “Bell sleeves to the elbow, and straight to a point from there down.”

She gives me a you-are-sooo-not-being-helpful glare. “That will make me look ridiculous,” she says.

I raise an eyebrow. “And since when has that ever stopped you?”

(Actually, she’s slowly coming around to my idea. I knew it wouldn’t stop her.)

By the time you’ve arranged a third date, the Half-Pints are choosing entrees and the Quarter-Pints are interrupting absorbing dinner conversation about Nietzsche* to ask if you’ll have flowers as nice as Cousin Hadassah’s. Three-Quarters-Pint is telling me that I’m totally getting married in the Marina del Ray (sp?) because it’s stunningly gorgeous and no place quite matches it. (Disclaimer: they are not paying me or her to advertise.)

I remind Three-Quarters-Pint that, in fact, I’m getting married in the driveway wearing beautiful white denim. Men will dance on the front lawn while women get a pavilion in the back. Flowers will be fresh from the neighbor’s garden. Marina del Ray need not apply.

My sister rolls her eyes in that you’re-just-being-difficult way and says, “Mommy and Abba won’t let, you know.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that!” chorus both parents from different rooms, dollar signs dancing in front of their eyes. My sister gives an exasperated “auh!” Because clearly we all have our priorities mixed up.

“Well his parents won’t let, and you don’t want to get on their bad side before you’re married,” she argues.

“Maybe they won’t want to get on my bad side,” I point out. After all, I’ll be the one feeding their beloved son.

“Well what if he wants a normal wedding?!” the poor girl is getting desperate. I have mercy.

“If he really insists, I guess I’ll have to get married in a hall.” Then, seeing her relief, I add, “But I would never marry someone with such shallow priorities.”

“It’s not—!” she starts, but sees me laughing and leaves to do something less frustrating, like geometric proofs.

 

* Not about his philosophy, just about how to spell his name.

For Married Readers

This looks fun.

Do it or I dare you to have toothpaste sandwiches for supper.

By a Raise of Hands

Seems every time I turn around someone IRL (in real life) is accusing me of authoring this blog. (As if! Am I the type to waste my time on this sort of nonsense?)

Just out of curiosity, is there anyone out there who has not yet accosted me about this matter and would like to get it over with now? The answer, of course, is “yes,” so you may sleep soundly tonight. Now who are you, and why are you wasting your time reading this sort of nonsense?

 Additionally, people have accused me of being cynical. (And what’s wrong with that, exactly? We live in a no-good, dirty, rotten world. At least I can see it for what it is… right.) I would like to clarify that point. Here’s the American Heritage Dictionary on “cynical”:

1. Believing or showing the belief that people are motivated chiefly by base or selfish concerns; skeptical of the motives of others: a cynical dismissal of the politician’s promise to reform the campaign finance system.

(Well of course! We tend to get some sort of kick out of what we do, or we wouldn’t do it, right?)

2. Selfishly or callously calculating: showed a cynical disregard for the safety of his troops in his efforts to advance his reputation.

(A person’s got to look out for themselves in this world, cuz nobody else is going to.)

3. Negative or pessimistic, as from world-weariness: a cynical view of the average voter’s intelligence.

(Don’t be naive. Take a look around at things without those dorky rose-colored glasses and you’ll see what I see.)

4. Expressing jaded or scornful skepticism or negativity: cynical laughter.

(I’ve been there and done that, and it was not fun at all.)

I don’t think I’m often cynical about shidduchim. I much prefer to think that I’m wry. On occasions, I am realistic, and in exceptional cases, I am a disappointed idealist. On rare occasions, I am a cynic. Call it semantics, but without shades of meaning we couldn’t differentiate between annoyed, irritated, angry, enraged, and furious. 

So remember, next-person-to-accost-me, the word is wry.

Weekend Angst

“So, what are you looking for?” my friend asks as I sprawl on her couch. She’s married, and dutifully carrying out her responsibility to set up all her friends.

“Nothing,” I give my usual answer. “I haven’t lost anything.”

“Very funny,” she rolls her eyes. “I mean in terms of shidduchim.”

“Nothing,” I repeat. “I don’t want to marry anything.”

She gives me a blank look that slowly turns into a worried look. “Excuse me? Since when?”

“Since always. And it’s something nobody in the entire world seems to understand. You ask the question all wrong. It isn’t what, it’s who. Who – WHO – WHO!”

“Whoa! OK, I get the idea. No need to get carried away.”

“Well it frustrates me and you’ve just made yourself available, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to get carried away.”

“I guess I don’t. Are you finished yet?”

“For now.”

But I’m not, really. Not as long as I continue to get asked that question.

“You know in full form, the question is ‘What traits are you looking for in a husband’,” my friend continues patiently. I hope she’s not playing Future Clinical Psychologist on me. “It helps narrow down the field a bit. There are a lot of men out there.”

But I don’t have a laundry list of “whats” to marry (though some people do, so I suppose it’s a legitimate question). Give me the right “who” and the “whats” will work themselves out. (Or am I being incredibly naive?) Besides, I suspect I’m the most narrowing criterion available.

Not having a list of “whats” means I don’t have a glib, one-word response to “Learner? Worker? Learner-earner?” Which, if you didn’t know, is the first criteria for narrowing down prospective matches. I always respond, “I don’t care as long as he’s sincere about whatever he’s doing.” I’d rather have a guy who’s working and kovea itim than one who’s kicking around in yeshiva because he can get away with it. But nor would I mind supporting a serious 24/7/365 learner—but he does have to be a serious 24/7/365 learner. The half-hearted and the fakers need not apply.

Absolutely nobody—not even my parents—seem able to grasp this simple concept, so mostly they say something muddled that leaves the other party thinking, “She doesn’t know what she wants” and led one caller to announce, “Well obviously she’s not mature enough to get married.”

Funny, no? In high school they told us that people enter shidduchim with a laundry list of must-haves, and slowly abandon them until they’re left seeking only a few most important traits. Yet, if you start it with just a few important traits and don’t bother with a laundry list, you’re immature.

Someone once said something like “His enemies know something that his friends conceal from him” – so without any friendly prevarication, who’s wrong—me or they?

Go on, there’s a crate of tomatoes next to the comment box. Help yourself.

If You’re Bored…

A couple of friends in grad school set up a blog called Frum Meets World.

Bad for Shidduchim Club Point-Tallying Time

This Bad for Shidduchim Club meeting is now called to order. First, business.

Question: can I get double points for wearing something horrifying in both Borough Park and Flatbush on the same day? Does it go by location or by costume? Much thought needs to go into this, for much ice cream is on the line…

Next in the program is points tallying for the past 3 weeks.

Club President B4S first:

Granted it ain’t much, but if I’m not wearing something b’geder business casual then I tend to be curled up at home, which reduces the opportunities for point-collection.

Long, casual skirt 5x

Baggy hoodie sweatshirt  4x

Sneakers 3x

Hiking boots 1x (Tangentially, why hasn’t anyone thought to make women’s boots that have traction? The way things stand, if a gal doesn’t want to wear rubber imitation wellies, her best bet is a pair of stilettos—at least the heel can act as an ice pick.)

Ponytail 7x

Backpack 3x

For all of the above I grant myself more than 200 points. Would anyone else like to present their tally? Pizza or ice cream for all who qualify. Those who will want low fat frozen yogurt or cheeseless pizza need not apply.

Shidduchim Shidduchim Everywhere…

I stumbled across an interesting advertisement today in the Hamodia magazine. (Last week’s I believe.)  It’s for a convention thrown by the Association for Jewish Outreach Programs. Based on the program they’re running, the target audience for this convention is a broad one. There’s a series of seminars on fundraising, which is presumably aimed at those running organizations, but also a teacher’s workshop clearly directed at those on the front lines of kiruv. And in case you thought this wasn’t for you, the central session is about the big splash ‘baal habatim’ are making on the kiruv scene. Then, off on a tangent, there’s a two-day extension addressing The Future of Judaism: Setting the Course, featuring more rabbis than one imagines can possibly share a podium in two days.

If all this isn’t enough to reel you in to Baltimore for the weekend of January 18^th, there’s an enticing box smack in the center of the advertisement:

“Featuring a Shidduchim program by Aliza Terris, MSW, RSW of Guiding Connection Building Services (www.guidingconnection.com). Aliza is an expert in matchmaking, relationships, and personality types.”

What’s next – kashrus symposiums with speed dating sessions? Siyum Daf Yomi with shidduch-profile checklists stacked at the door? Matchmaker consultations at the Agudah Convention?

Someone please tell me—am I missing a profound connection, or is this just more capitalizing on shidduch hysteria?

A Cure for Memory

How short is the human memory.

 

I called a married friend to ask for the number of the shadchan who made her match.

“What made you suddenly decide to give her a try?” Married Friend asked, knowing I’d previously refused to consider the thought.

“I’m not; someone else wants the number,” I explained.

“What’s the big deal? If you’re near her anyway, why not just go?”

“Because there’s nothing ‘just’ about visiting a shadchan. And I don’t ‘do’ professional shadchanim.”

“None? You’ve never gone to a shadchan?” she was astonished.

“Not really. They don’t make it easy, and I decided the aversion was mutual.”

“I can’t believe you. Never gone to a shadchan! Well then you have no right to complain about shidduchim!” my friend declared.

I consider telling her that complaining about shidduchim is what I do for fun in my spare time. Then I decide not to bother.

“They’re so awful and you want to subject me to the experience?” I asked. “Gee thanks, I thought you were my friend.” Then, thinking about this blog I added, “But seriously, give me an sample story.”

“I’ll tell you some stories about what shidduch dating is really about – when you come for Shobbos.”

Well, she had me there. In general, spending Shobbos at a young couple is something I hope to wake up from in a cold sweat. But with a tantalizing offer like that, who could resist?

What a wasted weekend.

“So, tell me some horror stories,” I prodded gently, Friday night after the meal. She mulled it over. “Well, I don’t have any horror stories, actually. I mean, of course there were the usual people who are just in the business because they like pointing – Girl – Boy – match – and seeing what happens. I went on a date from one of those – the guy was from out of town and leaving a few days later, so there was no time to do any research. And it was… not a match.”

Sounds bland, no? I remember hearing about that date shortly after it happened. She was annoyed at the shadchan who clearly hadn’t given her much thought, a hurt that he could have possibly made such a blatant error, angry at her sister for pushing her to go on the date without a background check, irritated by her date who should have behaved better… etc, etc. At the time it was quite an affair.

“Mmhm,” I said. “Any others?”

She thought deeply. “Hm… we-ell, there was one shadchan who kept pressing me for a number. You know – how much per year my parents would give in support. I refused to give one, but she’s like, ‘Some people want to know.’ And it was all she wanted to know.”

I rolled my eyes and snorted encouragingly. She did not go on.

“And that’s it? Nobody stood you up or…” I trailed off. I recalled her ranting about something like that once, but she didn’t seem to remember it.

“Not really. No, they were generally pretty good. I mean the woman who made my shidduch was the biggest problem – she’s impossible to reach,” Married Friend said blandly. “She’s never home and never picks up her phone and is never available during her ‘shadchan hours.’ And of course she asks you to confirm every appointment an hour before to make sure she’s still available. But nothing terrible.”

Nothing terrible. I do remember the rant. It was about how irritating the shadchan was because the appointment was scheduled for a workday, so Married Friend had to take off from work and rearrange her schedule special, and even then she wouldn’t know until one hour before that the appointment was actually going to happen! And excuse her, but one hour in advance? Hello – the woman lives two hours away! What’s she supposed to do – call from the highway and then turn around if Shadchan has a manicure appointment scheduled instead?

“Well what about your roommates?” I queried. Married Friend shared an apartment with 4 other desperately single women who had such horrific bad-date stories that they could make a crocodile shed real tears.

“I’m thinking… I don’t remember,” Married Friend confessed. “I mean, Shira has the worst bad date story ever – it held the record for three months until she had an even worse date – but I can’t remember it. And Talya had some incredibly bad dates too… I don’t know.”

 

Daters – are you haunted by bad memories of dating angst? Well here’s a cure. It’s called marriage.

But you knew that already.

The Liberating Ring

 

I don’t make it a practice to play the part of the paparazzi, but I did once find myself at a black tie affair with the mission to get a photograph of a notable. Said notable was in the midst of an adoring crowd, and the only way to get a shot would be to clamber up on a chair and take an aerial.

I looked around at the tuxedos and evening wear and said, “Uh uh. No way.” It just wasn’t the time or place. My companion and friend misunderstood the cause of my hesitation and snatched the camera out of my hand. “I’ll do it,” she said. “I’ve got the ring already.”

Once, I naively thought that Touro students dress up because they have full-time jobs during the day and need to look presentable. Then I began noticing how differently they appear after engagement.

One friend got engaged and suddenly she was, well, dressing down a bit. Not very much, but she began wearing long skirts – nice ones, of course, but still unusual – and being less fussy about her hair. Then another friend – one who blew her hair every morning, rain, shine, and no matter her mood – began wearing ponytails! Then I caught the first friend running out to do errands in… (sit down folks) denim. I had thought she swore that material off after seminary, but hey, you think you know someone and then they get engaged.

Of course, this interesting trend reverses itself temporarily after marriage. No woman ever dresses better than she does a few weeks after her wedding.

The chart below is based on an entirely scientific study of the amount of care orthodox females put into their appearance. As you can see, it remains fairly steady during the shidduch dating period, takes a bit of a tumble during engagement, but spikes shortly after the chupah, before slowly subsiding again to pre-dating levels.

But Nooo Doctors

When I was little, one of my mother’s favorite picture books was But No Elephants. It was not my favorite. Too much of it stretched my childish credulity about how people act. A salesman with a car full of animals sells a granny-type, Tildy, a beaver as a pet. The beaver is useful; she appreciates him. The guy keeps coming back selling her more useful pets, like a woodpecker, etc. And each time she grudgingly agrees to take the pet with the stipulation, “But no elephants.”

That’s where I began not understanding. Yes, elephants take up more space and eat more, but they’re also stronger and have those wonderful trunks. Every animal has its pros and cons; why wouldn’t she even consider the elephant?

When it comes to shidduchim, there are some things that people just won’t accept, because all they can think of are the cons. Which is why the average Mr./Miss Premed has serious issues getting a date. Everyone assumes that Doctor Mommy is somehow an oxymoron, or that it’s impossible for a frum person to make it through medical school spiritually healthy.

I’ve got a neighbor who’s a pediatrician. He works from 8 am to 10 am and from 4 pm to 6 pm, because that’s when most kids discover that they’re sick. The rest of the day he learns. There’s a female pediatrician who zips around all the male-run private practices doing annual checkups for the squeamish teenage girls. How’s that for flexible hours? And hospitals do run on shifts. Once you get over the killer interning years, it’s easy street in terms of choosing hours. (OK, sort of.) My point being: there are many types of doctors out there, and a physician has some leeway in choosing when he or she works.

Just for reference, your average physical therapist also works 9-5. They can only go into that much touted “private practice” business when they’ve built up a clientele, and even then, they’re not really choosing their own hours; their clients choose for them. And for most clients, weekend and post-5pm on weekdays is when it’s convenient.

So how do premed students go about getting married? Well one Miss PreMed tells people she’s “going into the medical field.” People automatically assume “physical therapy,” because that’s so much more appropriate than doctor. Heck, dissecting a dead and defenseless guy or taking off one’s shirt in class to look at back muscles is all in a day’s work for an aidel maidel—and that’s just Gross Anatomy class.

Of course her real goal comes out eventually over the diet coke. And that’s when things get interesting. One guy, upon hearing that his date intended to go—pardon my language—to medical school [rinse out mouth with soap], got wide-eyed and said,

“Um, I just remembered, this isn’t such a good night for a date. Let’s go.”

Gotta give him credit. This guy’s got finesse.

“Why a doctor? Why not a nurse?” Some feel the need to ask. “That’s also helping people.”

Aw c’mon, folks. Some people are meant to be in charge. They’re too smart to spend their life changing bedpans.

“I asked my rav and he said it’s OK for me,” Miss Premed complained. Being exceedingly bright and capable, she feels confident that she’ll be able to balance family and schoolwork, but if not, she knows her priorities, and it’s not the degree. Why doesn’t anyone give her a chance?

Oh yes, and it’s essentially the same thing with lawyers.

Strangers Like Me

There’s something about attending weddings that makes people ask me strange questions. Or maybe it’s just shidduch dating, and they happen to see me at weddings to ask me. Last time it was “Would you go out with someone who takes off his hat on the first date?” This time it was, “Would you date someone whose parents are ba’alei teshuva?” Apparently she’d dated a guy who unashamedly announced this blush-worthy fact on the first date. There was no second. However, my so-called friend was happy to shunt this irredeemably flawed fellow onto her so-called friend, me.

I don’t claim to understand the attitude. At least you know a BT is for real, right? And if it’s not him, but his parents – well how much harm can that do? Can someone please explain this one to me?

 

But as I was saying, someone wanted to set me up with the guy she went out with.

Question: should I get insulted if someone says, “I dated someone who reminded me of you – no way I’m marrying him – maybe you want to?” And here I thought she liked me. Well OK, I wouldn’t marry most of my friends either. But still.

I’m always a bit scared to go out with someone recommended in that fashion. Theoretically, it sounds great – someone just like me. (Actually, it would be a terrifying thought if there was a chance it was true.) In reality, all you get to do is see the lopsided way someone else perceives you. One of my ditzy cousins decided to set me up with a socially-awkward nerd she went out with. Not even a bona fide nerd, just someone who happened to be nerdy. Thanks, cuz. I’ll be sure to return the compliment one day. Then there was the laid-back joker who was just-like-me. Overall a better shot, but again, a miss. Then there was Mr. Well-He’s-Smart. (And? Anything else?)

Not like I would want to marry my clone anyway. No reason to embarrass myself with the details, but I’m sure it would be much more exciting to marry someone with exciting new flaws to discover.

Second Chances – Mandatory or Waste of Time?

Visited a friend and the Shobbos table discussion took a turn into Shidduch Lane. (Anyone here shocked? No?)

Apparently, someone wrote into the Yated saying that there should be a two-date minimum requirement set, because it’s impossible to tell after one date, and this heedless rejecting is crippling people’s chances.

Someone wrote in a vehement retort saying that the suggestion was pure pritzus because there is no purpose in a date that’s already a foregone conclusion.

We discussed this exercise in ink-wasting (because nobody is going to make any rules and nobody is going to enforce them if they’re made), and someone said his friend’s friend’s daughter rejected a guy after the first date as “totally self-centered.” Her father was rather partial to the fellow, and urged her to give him another chance. She agreed with certain conditions: that she wouldn’t do her hair or put on any makeup and that he’d better explain his “totally self-centered” behavior from date one. (Hey, I’d date anyone on those conditions! Almost.)

After date two, she was unsure. After date three, she was unsure. In middle of date four she called to say that she was engaged. (Which makes me unsure… of her sanity.)

Well, one story begets another. Someone else’s friend’s friend had a daughter who dismissed a guy after the first date, but he pressed for a second without letup. She, naturally, had no interest in a second, ‘pritzusdik’ date, and refused. Her father met a notable rav in the elevator and asked what she should do. He said, “Go out again.” So she did. Six children later…

The second-date turnaround stories came thick and fast. “Well how can you tell from one date?”asked Friend’s Mother. “Everyone is nervous and uncomfortable.” Indeed, second dates sounded sensible.

Walking home with a shidduch-jaded friend, I related the conversation.

“I used to do that,” she said. “I seriously gave everyone a second chance. But after about two years of that kind of dating I don’t have the patience anymore. You can tell when a guy is totally not right. And I’m not going to waste time on those type.”

That sounds sensible too.

 

How Long Do You Take?

 

Way back there was a Dilbert cartoon where Alice asks Dilbert what he’s wearing to the office party. Sipping his coffee, Dilbert replies, “Whatever comes up in the rotation, I guess.” The next frame shows him beaten up and telling Wally, “She shrieked something about spending a week in fifty stores to find the perfect outfit…”

Some people take a full two hours to prepare for their dates. Or so they tell me. It starts with a shower and then blow drying and then ironing (hair) and then clothing and makeup and pantyhose that keeps ripping and the list seems to go on forever. By the time they walk out the front door they must be exhausted, not to mention fried in the brain.

On the other end of the spectrum is little Miss Dater (aka Mickey Mouse online) who sneaks in the back door while her parents distract her date in the front hall, slips into something nicer than her work clothes, and appears two minutes later, bright-eyed and bushy tailed and ready to sip diet coke. Or diet water. Whatever.

Now, I think I’ve found a happy medium with a half-hour prep time, but still. When around two hours after the date ended the shadchan calls and says, “He gave the thumbs up, how about tomorrow night?” my first thought is, “Like I don’t have anything else to do with my life?” For the two-hour prep crowd, that must go quadruple. Do guys just change their shirt and put on a tie?

“I just put on whatever I wore on Shobbos,” my brother tells me. “It’s only a first date. An hour and a half and 2-to-1 you never see her again.”

Did you hear that, two-hour-prep girls? Don’t beat up your poor date. Just get smart. Put on whatever you wore on Shobbos.

Hilchos Dating – Dibur

 

Ah… the first date. The halacha dictates that this date takes place in a hotel lounge over a diet coke or bottle of water. Talk should be light but discerning.

Um… light? As in what exactly? Anything conceivably “light”—as well as many things that are quite “heavy”—you tend to know already. Sometimes to the point of idiocy.

A friend of mine didn’t want to date until her older sister was engaged, so when someone redt her a fellow she insisted on knowing everything down to the color of his socks (black) before agreeing to go out. He, for his part, was jaded from being redt the wrong sort of females, so he insisted on knowing her entire biography, including the part that hadn’t happened yet, before agreeing to go out. Their first date must have been like an old reunion. As the parents shut the door behind them, he probably said something like, “I’m glad to hear you did well on that history report.”

“Yes, especially since I didn’t have much time to work on it…”

“Well you were busy with more important things.”

“True. But still, I like to do a good job on my work.”

“I know.”

“I hear the flu is going around Lakewood—I hope that’s not what your chavrusa caught.”

“Oh no, no way. It’s just strep—he found out this morning.”

“That’s great! So he’ll be back to learning with you tomorrow! How are you finding Yevamos?”

Etc. etc. Since they did all the dating before the dating, they were ready to get married after two dates (I kid you not), but hung out for six for the sake of propriety. (After all, what would people say? Not like it matters once you’re engaged.)

Then there are some really gauche ways to handle the first date. Here’s what one shlimeil did to a friend. He handed her a diet coke, cleared his throat, and said, “Why don’t we take turns telling what we know about each other and then we can fill in the blanks?” That did not go over well. Especially since her parents had neglected to inform her that she was going on a date until one hour before it was supposed to happen, and she wasn’t even sure what his name was.

Rov poskim agree, however, that you should either ignore those topics or rehash them while pretending you don’t know anything about them. If he provides information that contradicts what you’ve heard, things can get exceedingly interesting. Sometimes it doesn’t even have to contradict. A friend went out with a guy who she was told was accepted to Columbia. He nonchalantly admitted that he’d applied to the engineering program, which has a ridiculously high entrance rate, just to keep his parents happy, but had no intention of attending. (“Engineering? Me? Are you kidding?”)

Me, I try not to get too much information beforehand, which suits my parents, who don’t enjoy collecting it. I’d rather find out the truth from the horse’s mouth than a lot of fantasy from his neighbors who want to marry him off because “he’s such a nice boy.”

There’s a whole ‘nother sefer-worth of “halacha” about how long the date is supposed to be (one date asked me if it was OK to return me home 15 minutes before the minimum) and how long to keep them hanging before approving a second date, and on and on ad nauseum.

At this point, I just declare that hidebound regulations are “not our minhag” and get on with whatever feels right. Who has time for this nonsense?

Social Misfit

 

Blood may be thicker than water, but there’s something to be said for those you choose to associate yourself with.

I don’t hate my relatives. I just can’t think of any reason to like them. They’re nice people, but the amount of common ground we share couldn’t serve as a desert island in a Far Side cartoon.

The cousins my age all agree on this point, so at family affairs we meet in a truce, socializing politely in shared misery. The older, married cousins yap about diapers while the high schoolers complain about homework and plan their summers. But I could always count on my group of cousins to huddle with me – if they couldn’t get out of the affair altogether. We’d make small talk about “so what have you been doing lately?”, a topic that never ceased to be freshly exciting because no one bothered remembering the answers for more than a few minutes.

But then a whole bunch of them went and got engaged, the traitors. So this Chanukah, the high schoolers yapped about what they would wear to the weddings, the older cousins talked about babysitters, and I was left with one lone cousin on the side to watch the rest of them float together, swapping diet tips and discussing how many times they had to have their gown taken in. (And they’re all honeymooning in Israel for a year, so I need to reevaluate my long-term family-event strategy. Help!)

It occurred to me, as I lounged in the corner, listening to the high schoolers chatter, that a good deal of the interest in marrying is socially derived. If you aren’t paired up by a certain age then you’re “left behind,” the lonely single in a room of married people and youngsters. You don’t belong anywhere; you choose to insert yourself with the younger crowd or the older crowd, but you don’t belong to either.

This makes many single women miserable. They feel like they have no friends. A ludicrous situation to be in, considering that “10% of this year’s graduating class will never marry.” There are many single women out there; we ought to stick together and befriend each other. Nobody has an excuse for being friendless. Go forth and find friends! How hard can it be, with a shidduch crisis on?

With that introduction, I would like to say that it was a pleasure to meet Bas~Melech, Dreamer, and Corner Point (or re-meet, as the case might be—it’s a small world!) yesterday. Thanks for arranging it, Bas~Melech, and let’s do it again someday soon.

Miss Special, Meet Mr. Best

My brother was complaining about the huge amount of special girls out there. He says he gets a small amount of information about each proposed match, and too much space is wasted on how special she is. “They’re all special! There are too many special girls and too many best bochurim.”

At first, I wasn’t sure why he cared about the best bochur business. Then I realized. Being a best bochur himself, he resents the flooding of the market and the dilution of the name.

Not that being a “best bochur” should be such a big deal. One Shobbos in Israel I ate with an entire yeshiva. Yep, all four students. It can’t be too hard to be the best bochur in that place. In fact, they can even rotate it, depending on who’s dating that week. “Best” is a very relative term. Who cares?

And what’s with this ’special’ business? It’s gotten to the point where you’re most conspicuous if you’re not special. And I’m afraid I’m not. If anyone has ever called me “special” they need their head checked. I assume that “special” is a way of saying “aidel” without saying it. Or else it’s a way of saying “there’s more to her than meets the eye.” Which is another way of saying, “she looks incredibly boring and ordinary, but since you won’t go out with an ordinary and boring person, let me assure you that she’s really got something more to her. Just don’t ask me what.”

“Special” sounds slightly vaguer than “sparkling.” Someone once tried to set me up with a fellow who, in his long list of must-haves in a mate, included “a sparkling personality.” My personality doesn’t sparkle, glitter, twinkle, or coruscate. It just plods on steadily, day after day, except when it decides to sleep late and then you don’t want to meet me. I can count on exactly one finger the number of definite sparklers I know. She was engaged a few months out of high school, broke the engagement, and was engaged again a few months later. Which should let you know how in-demand those sparkling personalities are. Shucks for the rest of us.

(By Mr. I-Want-a-Sparkler’s list, he seemed to require a butterfly who would flutter solicitously around his flame and “help him achieve his full potential.” Aside from having a husband who has achieved his full potential, I couldn’t see what was in it for me, so I said no thank you. He is now happily married and I am still happily single. Life works out very well if you give it a chance.)

Back to my point, if I had one: does anyone know what “special” actually means? And does “best bochur” have any meaning at all?

 

Does She HAVE to Get Married?

My sister was raving about how wonderful one of her high school teachers is and how she completely throws herself into her teaching and does such an incredible job.

“Yep,” I agreed. “She’s one of those people who you just know are still single because Hashem needs her for something more important.”

“Are you kidding? We all want to marry her off.”

“Then she wouldn’t be teaching you any more.”

My sister rolled her eyes at me. “We want her to get married after we graduate. Duh.”

“Pretty selfish of you, depriving future students.”

“Well we like her so much we want her to be happy! How else—?”

I don’t know.

Three Time’s a Charm

I’ve been tagged three times: by FrumSatire, Scraps, and Frum in South Florida, so it’s getting hard to ignore. I actually had to look up “meme” the first time, and I’m wondering if anyone knows the etymology for the word?

Anyway, this strikes me as an effort in futility. If you know me, then chances are you know anything I’m going to say. If you don’t, than even my hair color is going to be news. Plus, FrumSatire’s meme is slightly different from the other two, but hey, who cares.

So, to start, my hair is brown. To some people that is news. I’ve had long and arduous debates about it with them, actually. It’s a very, very dark brown – so dark it looks black indoors – but those red highlights in the sun kinda give it away. Besides, I’ve spend enough time examining it that I am quite certain I’ve got it right. And if you still don’t believe me, pretend you do.

One day I want to hike the Shvil Yisrael, from the top where it starts in the Golan right down to the bottom in Eilat. I’m looking for both a sponsor and a good hiking partner.

My favorite song is the ga’avah song from The Marvelous Middos Machine. The top ten is mostly filled with MMM and Journeys tunes, with some Pardes 1 thrown in.

I find lack of curiosity to be one of the most frustrating traits in acquaintances (and in odd circumstances, friends). Narrow mindedness and/or snobbery is/are the most frustrating. (Narrow mindedness is a type of snobbery, in my opinion.)

I would much rather read a book than visit an amusement park, go shopping, or eat out (even on somebody else’s tab).

I like making things. I’ve spent hours absorbed in designing and building things just for the sheer joy of it. I like it best when they work how they should, but more than half the fun is in the work.

I tend to confuse left and right. I suspect it’s because I’m a lefty, and therefore my left hand is my right hand (so to speak).  Some people have told me that that’s a weird excuse; they didn’t spend as much of their formative years absorbing classical literature. At any rate, I ask people to give me driving directions using “fork” and “knife”, where fork is left and knife is right (if you set the table correctly). People who set the table wrong often get me lost.

(Eight because FS’s meme was in eights): I think the key to happiness is being able to internalize the message, “Get over it.”

On Shidduchim and Terrorist Suspects

A friend emailed me via Facebook to let me know that someone called her to ask about me.

I don’t get the point of Facebook email. She has my email address and can use it. Why send an email that sends a message to my email account telling me to visit a webpage so I send a message that sends her an email that sends her back to a webpage to look at the message? Does anyone else find it mildly ridiculous?

But anyway, her message was startling because (1) she hasn’t been an official reference for about a year and (2) I wasn’t aware that I was being stalked at the moment.

It feels like being in a spy story, but without the thrills. Really, I ought to receive this message in a telephone booth. She should have a towel over the phone to disguise her voice and whisper, “They’re closing in on you… I got a call. Gave them complimentary misinformation but be careful!” click.

Shouldn’t it be disconcerting to know that perfect strangers who you don’t know and may never know are asking about you?

It’s really too bad the Muslims don’t have a shidduch system in place. The IDF or CIA would have no trouble tracking down suicide bombers. All they’d have to do is make random phone calls to a suspect’s friends and relatives. Nobody would suspect a thing:

Agent: Hello, can I ask you about Yussef? He’s interested in my daughter.

Ibrahim: Oh, certainly. He’s a wonderful young man.

Agent: Religious, I hope? I only want a very religious man for my daughter.

Ibrahim: Never misses a prayer. Studies the Koran. Makes Allah’s will his will.

Agent: Yes, but would he give up his life for Allah?

Ibrahim: Just between me and you, he’s very high on Hamas’s suicide list. He’s been isolating himself and meditating a few hours every day to prepare. Yussef is the best bomber in the madrassah. A real catch.

Agent: That’s really wonderful! My daughter is quite partial to suicide bombers. Particularly rich ones. That’s the key to a happy marriage, don’t you think?

Ibrahim: Oh, absolutely.

Wired magazine ran an article once about a Bangledash-born professor Hasan Halahi who was on the USA’s surveillance list. His response? Go transparent. He keeps a blog, a YouTube account, a Twitter account, a MySpace account, etc, and keeps them all stocked with moment-by-moment information about his life. If he buys a coffee, he uploads a photo of it. If he goes to sleep, his webcam recorded it. If he waits on line at the grocery, he makes sure to post it to Twitter while blogging about it through his smartphone. He figures he might as well make it easy for the Pentagon, since he has nothing to hide. Indeed, their IP address frequently visits his various pages.

From me to Halahi (a la FAO Schwartz toys): Welcome to our world!

Except, of course, that he has it easier. Imagine what sort of bad rap we’d get if we tried simplifying the research process like that. Life just isn’t fair.

Everyone’s a Shadchan

The saddest part of the shidduch business is that everyone’s in it. And by everyone I mean everyone. The entire world, religious, Jewish, or not, knows that Jews have to marry Jews, and the earlier the better.

It’s bad enough when a religious boss or coworker or IRS tax auditor asks “What are you looking for?” My usual, unspoken answer in these situations is, “A black hole to sink into.” Can’t anyone look at me without seeing “nebach, unmarried” written across my forehead? My spoken answer is usually, “Let me get back to you,” followed by doing exactly not that.

But it gets absurd when everyone else gets in on the act as well. Think: a friend is doing whatever it is that nurses-in-training do at hospitals, when a sweet Hispanic radiologist says, “You’re Jewish, right?”

“Right.”

“Looking to get married?”

Warily: “Uh-huh.”

And then blam, she’s trying to set my friend up with the surgical intern who my friend always thought was Italian, but apparently wears a Magen David around his neck and therefore must be her future spouse, why wouldn’t she even consider it?! My friend very unreasonably turned down the shidduch, though the radiologist was ready and willing to go through all the shidduch shtick to make it happen. She’d heard all about it and how important this marriage business was, and wanted to help out.

Now, I’m ready and willing to believe that my mailman can successfully redt me a shidduch (with beginners luck, anything is possible). But I squirm to think that he should be aware that it’s an issue for me to be single beyond my very low twenties.

Anyone agree that some things we should just keep to ourselves?

 

PS: If you’ve always managed to shrug off these ad hoc shadchanim, consider yourself lucky. Dreamer was actually forced to attend a date arranged by one…

Do I Scare You?

Women, are your dates very short? Do you not get third or even second dates? The Jewish Press dating column has advice: act dumb.*

The column explained that women get degrees and learn analytic thinking and begin to approach life that way. They treat everything like a dissertation or a subject for a critical essay. And they assume that the easiest way to impress a date, like a professor, is to display their intellectual prowess. So on first dates they discuss concepts and ideas, much to the dismay of the gentlemen across the table.

My first question is: aren’t the guys also in college getting degrees and practicing analytic thinking?

My second is: so the first date is limited to “what I did during my year in Israel” conversation?

The article went on to recommend that women turn off the brains and turn on the charm for the first few dates, since a guy is marrying the person not the cranium.

Question number three: so we should pretend to be “dumb blonds” for the first three dates? If a guy wants that type of wife, then shouldn’t a brainy woman attempt to scare him off ASAP? The point isn’t to get more dates, it’s to get appropriate dates. And there are enough intelligent women out there disguised as ditzes because they think it’ll make them more desirable. Please don’t encourage the phenomenon!

Besides, how bad can this conceptual stuff get? Nobody plunks down their diet coke and says, “So, how do you think the United States trade deficit will have a deleterious effect on its geopolitical hegemony?” Or do they? Has anyone here done that? Add it to the list of fun things to do on dates.

I can see something similar happening during the “what do you do” stage of the date. You know:

She: So what do you do for a living?

He: I’m an accountant.

She: How… interesting. You add up numbers?

He: I also give some financial advice.

She: Mmhm. That’s nice.

He: What do you do?

She: I’m on the CUNY string theory team.

He: How… interesting. That’s the stuff with the parallel universes and grand unified theory of everything?

She: Well actually…

…And that’s where it begins going downhill.

 

If a woman is talking analytically solely to impress a guy, then I agree—that’s wrong. She should stop. But if she tends to analyze things to death – and I know people who do – then that’s part of her personality, and if he doesn’t like it, he shouldn’t bother with a second date. What it boils back down to (once again) is that one shouldn’t pretend on a date.

But if you’re wondering, I’ll encourage my children to study Mandarin.

 

*based on two columns run almost a year ago.

Hilchos Dating – Shtikah part 2

Of course, nobody can beat one’s own siblings when it comes to prying. My sister was in top form the night of my first ever first date. The date was called for 6:30 pm. At 6:25 pm I was performing a double-check-in-the-mirror and she was crouched by the window on the third floor, lights out, surreptitiously watching the street. At 6:28, while I was finishing a final-double-check-in-the-mirror, she began her sportscaster’s play-by-play.

“There’s a blue car slowing down… it’s parking right in front – must be him! Wow, Bad4, he’s really on time… That’s a nice park. Whatever he’s like, he can really park a car well… Here he comes – whoa, he’s tall. I hope you’re wearing heels. And not those ugly low ones, I mean the nice stilettos—you’re wearing those, right? Right? Bad4 what are you wearing?… Sha! He’s getting his hat off the dashboard… he’s walking up to the front door… here he comes…” DING DONG “6:30 on the dot! Wow, Bad4. Is he a yeki?” she asked, dashing down the stairs to take a better position at the second floor railing.

“Sister dear,” I said, as calmly as I could manage, “I would kill you right now using the sharp end of my tweezers, but I’m afraid of getting blood on my suit.”

“I know,” she grinned happily. “I’m having sooo much fun.”

Things only got better, since my date was over on the la’av of “thou shalt not take thy date anywhere where she is likely to be recognized.” Yep, within two hours, while he was on a bathroom break, I was smiling at an elementary school teacher of mine—and not one I’d gotten along with either. I didn’t really mind seeing her on a date. I sincerely believe that dating is a natural process that just about everyone goes through and therefore not something to be embarrassed about. The embarrassing part was her sweet, sympathetic, hopeful, and well-wishing smile. It’s difficult to pack so much unwelcome friendliness into a smile, but she did it.

By the time Mr. Beaux #2 rolled around, my young sister was enjoying the intrigue. A neighbor her age called to say she was coming to return my sister’s hair iron. Beaux #2 was scheduled to arrive in around 2 minutes. “No!” shouted Little Sister.

“Why not?” asked the neighbor. “I have time now and I want to tell you something.”

“Tell me over the phone.”

“No, I want to tell you in person.” (I don’t claim to understand this conversation; I’m just relaying it.)

“So I’ll come to you.”

“What? That’s a first. You always make me come to you.”

“I want the exercise.”

“Well so do I! I just started this diet—“

“So we’ll meet halfway!”

“You are so weird!”

“I know! See you in a minute!” my sister hung up, triumphant. She’d saved the day.

“You could have just told her I have a date,” I pointed out. I had already decided to take a leaf out of NAtS’s book. It seemed like the key to happiness. When life gives you lemons, just laugh and say, “What do I care?” Worst case scenario, you get an awesome story to tell the slack-jawed friends.

Hilchos Dating – Shtikah part 1

 

Dating is a top-secret pastime. The CIA is never half as anxious to hide its activities as a dating girl is. There is somehow something embarrassing about marching off for a date under the watchful eyes of the neighbors. Somehow you just know they’ll be noting your hair and shoes and how ironed his pants are and make sure to ask the next morning, oh-so-sweetly, “So how did it go?” to which you’ll reply, “Oh, fine,” whether it was as good as a slice of tiramisu or as awful as finding a run in your tights during a wedding reception.

One friend was rather horrified to discover a game of elimination getting started in the street at 6:25 when her date was scheduled to arrive at 6:30. Even worse, he showed up on time. Thankfully, while her parents were doing the chatting thing, a kindly neighborhood father recognized the signs and convinced the local children that what they really wanted to do was practice their multiplication in the backyard. Or something like that. She didn’t ask for details—too relieved.

Of course, the more secretive you are, the more people make a fuss about finding out. Neighbor-Across-the-Street (the one with the bathrobe sister) had to contend with a group of giggly girl neighbors who just happened to be sitting on the next door stoop whenever she had a date. NAtS would wave merrily as she slid into the passenger seat. Dating can be very character building. I’m glad to say that the local girls bored of this entertainment before my time arrived.

Not that I date unobserved. My irreligious next-door neighbor finds shidduchim to be of anthropological interest. (And who can blame her?) So I know I’m just making her day when I walk past her door at a “beaux’s” elbow. She knows exactly how much effort went into reaching this point, and she’ll be intrigued to see if he comes again, how often, and for how long. I suspect she’s quite anxious to get me married off; she’s worried I’m not having the sort of fun I should be having at this age, because of those pesky shomer negia and ervah rules.

Off Topic: It’s Out

Remember that literary magazine for literary Jewish works? You can buy it at the Kollel Supermarket (39th and 13th in Borough Park), the Zion Supermarket (13th and 38th in Borough Park), Ahava Newstand (opposite Essex on Coney Island Avenue), Moisha’s Supermarket, and the larger newstands by the Avenue M and Avenue J Q stations. Eventually it will sell in both Eichler’s’ as well.

If you live near Glatt Mart – the supermarket has refused to sell them, so why not accost a manager in the aisles and ask for a copy to create a sense of demand?

I’ve skimmed it, and it’s stuff you’re not going to find elsewhere. Kosher, but different than anything you’ve seen before. Though some of the stories were strange, I found them compelling reads. It took a minute to figure out why: they were well written. Some of the pieces have a slightly rough feel to them, but at the same time, are good reading. Some are funny, some are serious. Yes – one is a serial. Where is yours?

If you read it through and don’t find the genre you write – fret not. The fact that he couldn’t get your type of stuff for the first issue doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it running. So go ahead, submit.

allen

[at]

thewriterscafellc

[dotcom]

Hilchos Dating – Hachanah

 

So there I was, agreeing to my first first date. Then it hit me: what on earth do you wear?

It’s at times like these that the black suit and hat uniform begins to look desirable.

When in doubt, call older and wiser friends, right? So I did. The Flatbush friend said any nice Shobbos outfit would do, as long as it was a suit. The Monsey friend claimed it had to be a black suit. Miss Dater from Queens said a suit was overkill—this was a date, not yet the wedding. The Far Rockaway contact said a nice sweater set would be optimal. The Lakewood advisor told me the outfit doesn’t matter, it’s the heels that make a difference. I I finally threw down the phone and thought, Help me God— Oh wait, don’t. The last time God took care of the clothing for a date, both parties were naked.

Then there’s the whole business of coming down late. I’m a very prompt person, so I’m usually finishing my post-final-double check in the mirror when the doorbell rings. My parents heard that they’re supposed to chat him up for a few minutes while they wait for me to finish getting ready, but I’m usually the one ready and waiting for them to finish chatting him up. For my first date, I was going to march down and end the nonsense after 2 jittery minutes, but my younger sister insisted that it wasn’t proper – 3.5 minutes minimum. Since she was sprawled across the top of the stairs peering between the railings for the best view, I had to follow her guidance or risk a dramatic rolling entrance.

By the way, it isn’t necessary to faher the poor boy on the first date. My Neighbor-Across-the-Street married a guy who didn’t even meet her parents until date number three. Yep – neither her mother nor her father were home to open the door for the first date. It gets better, folks. The door was opened by her teenaged sister. Who was wearing a bathrobe. She said, “The couch is there. She’ll be down soon,” and padded back into the kitchen with her book and brownies. Some people just get everything wrong and yet somehow get it all right. Incredible, isn’t it?